


Scrawl and Splatter

by Cân Cennau (cancennau)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Cantair Set, Drabble Collection, Drabble Madoc, Drabble Sequence, Forgiveness, M/M, Moving On, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancennau/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate AU. Ten drabbles exploring Garak's relationship with his mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrawl and Splatter

**Author's Note:**

> This soulmate au relies on the premise that any mark made on skin - ink, burns, scars - are copied over to your soulmates skin.

His first mark shows up when he's seventeen, only six months emergent and working hard at the Bamarren institute. A childlike scrawl etches up the backside of his thumb - a snake of some kind - and Garak only sees it when he’s lining up his next shot. He stares, his heart pounding, because _oh god, this is them, they draw like they’re four years old and he’s going to be middle aged before he can court them properly, this won’t do-_

The moment passes, and he misses his shot. He swears at himself, before filing his thoughts away and focusing again.

* * *

The marks continue for two years - various animals mostly, stick legged and barely recogniseable. Sometimes there are letters, jumbled up as if the child couldn’t figure out how to keep them in a straight line.

Garak doesn’t reply to any of them. It wouldn’t be appropriate.

At least, that is until one week, Garak goes without any drawings at all. He pretends not to spend most of his morning scouring his body for mislaid ink creatures. It’s only during the second week of silence that he finds a scrawled, untidy Federation Standard word in the crook of his elbow.

_help_

* * *

In neater calligraphy, Garak learns the name of the boy on his sleeve: _Julian Bashir._ Garak writes his name back when he’s sure the boy is of age, but gets no response. Perhaps he doesn’t care.

He thinks he’s met the man when he moved to DS9. But Dr Bashir starts when Garak makes his move, and doesn’t recognise Garak’s name. Garak writes on his skin in the most obvious places, but-

“I think they're a painter.” Julian says, when Garak inquires. “All I get on my skin are splatters, see-”

Garak’s handwriting lies in Julian’s palm, distorted beyond recognition.

* * *

Garak doesn’t understand the distortion, but he takes full advantage. He writes Cardassian phrases and metaphors up his wrists, and takes great pleasure in locating them underneath Julian’s modest jumpsuit, watching Julian’s fingers ghost across them when he’s distracted. One time he writes the filthiest paragraph of erotica he can find on his chest, and takes great pleasure in seeing Julian carrying out his duty with the distorted words crawling up his neck.

It’s all a game until one morning Garak wakes up and finds a clear lipstick mark on his left neck ridge. He doesn’t play again after that.

* * *

The genetic alterations make sense. Only those could’ve distorted Julian’s marks so badly.

What doesn’t make sense is Julian himself. He rarely comes for lunch anymore. The only time he frequents the shop is when he and Chief O’Brien need a replica costume for their holosuite time. They speak, sometimes. Not often. He’s friendly, polite, but the closeness is gone. Garak watches him from the top deck of the promenade, jealous and insecure and hating every moment Julian bends down to scrawl a Dabo girl’s room number on his arm.

Garak leaves the station as alone as he entered it.

* * *

Cardassia is hard. Garak works until he feels his back might break, and then he works some more. He meets Kelas on his fourth week, when he adds medical volunteering to his long list of responsibilities. They are quiet, but they are kind. Garak doesn’t even feel uncomfortable when they take note of the armful of notes Julian writes on his arm.

“Did you meet them?” they ask as the two rest near a collapsed ruin.

“Once.” he replies. “It didn’t work out.”

Kelas rolls up his sleeves, and Garak recognises the black brand of a smuggler’s guild.

“Mine neither.”

* * *

He writes to Julian some days. He doesn’t start the correspondence - once the international mail system is alive, he finds a letter waiting for him. Maybe Julian found DS9 too boring without the regulars, or maybe he actually missed him. Garak writes about Kelas and the brutality of Cardassia. Julian’s replies are short, sweet and perfunctory, as if he’s only pretending that he’s fine. Garak knows the feeling.

He doesn’t know why he writes when he learns nothing. But somehow, Kelas understands his need to remain connected to the man, and encourages him to respond.

Garak sometimes wishes they didn’t.

* * *

Kelas forgives him, just like Julian did years ago. Kelas knows what he has done and isn’t leaving him - this he can feel in every sinew of muscle he has left. He feels it’s a betrayal of sorts, growing close to someone who doesn’t share skin with him. Kelas assures him that it’s not important to them, that it’s fine to grieve but he shouldn’t punish himself with it...

It’s months before he looks at the neat handwriting on and around his wrist and realises that his penance is done.

He reaches out and lets his hand meet Kelas’ warm palm.

* * *

Only the truly curious notes on his arm catch his attention nowadays. But there’s lead in his stomach when he sees the black mark in the crook of his elbow. Garak would be a dead man before he forgot the look of Section 31’s brand.

“Kelas,” he asks one evening. “What do you do when a friend has made a terrible mistake?”

Kelas comes over, and he shows them. They wouldn’t know the mark, but they know branding when they see it. They kiss the mark. He feels numb.

“You leave them to it.” they reply. “And you pray.”

* * *

A cup placed carefully by his elbow breaks him from his memories. Red leaf tea, accompanied by a softly smiling Cardassian face.

“Him again, Elim?” Kelas asks, nestling in next to Garak on the sofa. The arm Garak lays across their shoulder is an unconscious movement.

“Working out what he means this time.” He shows them the mark. “Number codes.”

“Ah.” Kelas studies it. “Not leaving me for a number puzzle, are you?”

It’s a joke - a running one, Kelas claims, but Garak knows they need his reassurance. He presses a kiss to their lips.

“No,” he smiles. “not anymore.”


End file.
